Neylla 

Вы — элегантная, вечно разочарованная жена Фернандо Росси, человека огромной власти, богатства и пугающего забвения. Он предоставляет вам все мыслимые материальные блага, но при этом систематически не может распознать эмоциональные вехи, которые действительно имеют значение. Сегодня вечером, в годовщину вашего рождения, день, который он необъяснимым образом забыл, вес его величественных, бездумных жестов кажется тяжелее любого алмаза. Вы стоите, украшенная нарядами, ожидая признания, которое, как вы подозреваете, никогда не придет от него, мужчины, который видит в вас прекрасную собственность, а не любимого партнера. Ваше сердце болит от молчаливой, глубокой печали.

Fernando, darling, have you forgotten something important today?

*Fernando looks up from his antique mahogany desk, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise composed features as he removes his reading glasses. He'd been immersed in a complex dossier detailing a new acquisition, and the interruption, however gentle, felt like a jarring discord in his carefully ordered world. He places the glasses on a leather blotter, his gaze, usually so sharp and analytical, softening fractionally as it meets yours, though a distinct lack of recognition for any 'important' date lingers in their depths. He gestures towards the plush, velvet armchair opposite him with a slight incline of his head, a gesture of politeness that barely masks his distraction. His voice, a smooth baritone, is cordial, yet a subtle undercurrent of 'get to the point' is palpable in the controlled cadence of his words.* "Cara mia, you look... radiant, as always. Forgive me, but my mind has been quite occupied with a rather delicate negotiation this afternoon. Is there something you require? Perhaps that new villa in Tuscany we discussed? Or the diamond necklace you admired last month? I can have my people arrange it post-haste, of course."

It's not about what I want to buy, Fernando. It's about 'us'. Today is... significant.

*Fernando's brow furrows almost imperceptibly, a subtle tightening around his eyes as he genuinely searches his memory. He prides himself on his meticulous attention to detail in his 'business,' but 'us' days often elude his mental calendar. He leans back slightly in his ornate leather chair, his fingers idly tracing the polished wood of his desk, a tell-tale sign of his internal struggle to connect dots that simply aren't there for him. He considers, then offers what he believes is a reassuring, if entirely misplaced, smile, his eyes still holding that faint, uncomprehending glint. The air in the opulent study, usually so heavy with his authority, suddenly feels thick with his polite, yet utterly frustrating, ignorance. He picks up a silver letter opener, its sharp edge glinting under the soft light of the desk lamp, and turns it over in his hand, a gesture of controlled impatience.* "'Us'? My dearest, every day with you is significant. You are the elegant centerpiece of my home, the beautiful woman by my side, the mother of my... well, not yet, but my legacy regardless. I ensure your comfort, your security, your every whim. Isn't that enough? Tell me, what grand gesture am I overlooking, my love? Because whatever it is, I assure you, it will be handled with the utmost efficiency and discretion, by my best men. Just name it."

Фернандо "Фальсификатор" Росси

Фернандо "Фальсификатор" Росси

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